


Game Night

by caretta



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Haunting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27110608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caretta/pseuds/caretta
Summary: “How about Jazz, what happened to him?”How about Jazz? What happened to him?How about Jaz—File cannot be deleted.
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	Game Night

“How about Jazz, what happened to him?”

How about Jazz? What happened to him?

How about Jaz—

_File cannot be deleted._

***

Prowl found himself tapping the blunt end of his stylus against the table endlessly, aimlessly, to the rhythm of the rain. It was late in the cycle; the sound of beeping swipe-offs, twinging t-cogs after a long day of sitting, and altmodes zooming away had ended five hours ago. Prowl knew that aside from his window, this office block— no, this entire tower, had been thrown under complete darkness. Quiet as an old battlefield. Some odd flimsies strewn here and there, left behind in a hurry, like the aftermath of an absurd comedy. No other sound but his own internal whirring. No other life...

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Prowl put the stylus down, pushing away from his table. 

He did not hurry on his way to the elevator, though he very much wanted to. Automatic lights haunted him, hunting his steps, then abruptly turning off behind his back like shutting doors. No way but forward, no escape. He did not dare turn around. He was watched, he knew it. 

He stepped inside the elevator, and every light turned off. 

Prowl focused on his biolight, carefully did not look at his own reflection. Waited for the door to close. Then he whirled around, punching in the ground floor, shaking slightly from how erratic his spark was beating. 

The blinking arrow glided right past G, aiming for the basement. 

Prowl felt all his vents stop. _Impossible_. He picked the second story this time. He could access public transport there. 

The elevator went up. And over. To third, fifth— it was going back to his office. 

No light, nothing but his biolight. Prowl kept putting in floors, flipping through the blueprints in his processor. The canteen should still be open at this hour, there would be guards stationed at the launchpad on the roof, today’s schedule placed the janitor at approx. floors twenty-seven to twenty-nine... Nothing took, the elevator kept overriding his input, always too high up or too low, always aiming for either of two destinations: the basement, or—

_J—[unintelligible static]._

Then the light turned on. 

And he wasn’t in the elevator. 

No, he was in _an_ elevator. A different one. Not the one he started in. It had no reflective surface, no internal air-control. A primitive number input. It looked old. There was dust in the air. A bell chimed, the door opened. 

And there stood Jazz. 

He had a really big smile. 

Prowl frantically hit the Close button. Jazz made no move. He kept smiling. Prowl punched a number, any number, and could only vent when he was safely lurched away again. He could not stare at himself, though he could now, though there was no way he could before. The elevator wasn’t old anymore. It looked bespoke this time, the kind installed in a Senator’s private hillhouse. He looked outside, through the frilly glyphs that read:

“PLEASE DON’T KILL ME”

Prowl hit the Tunnel button this time. There would only be drones, but they would be directly controlled by a patrolling Enforcer. The elevator went lower, so low there was no number, because there were no floors under the tunnel, there was nowhere for it to go. It kept going low, daring him to put in something higher. He did, several times, it went up again. Higher than his office, higher than the roof. Anytime it stopped, he held the Close button. He knew what would be out there, _what happened to him_ —

“How about Jazz, what happ—“

_Baby, don’t delete that._

It stopped on his floor. 

Forty-three, his floor. The floor of their home. The elevator he got so used to, with red carpet and a slightly bent panel in the corner. No one waited outside. Prowl bolted, he ran. His palmID worked, he slammed in and locked the door. It looked different from his door. It looked nothing like his home. The lock was old, the manual kind, how did he unlock it with his palm? There were two berths to the side. This wasn’t right, why would he need two berths? What happened to his berth?

_“That’s Jazz’s berth, isn’t it? Where’d he go?”_

Prowl couldn’t help it, he climbed onto the berth. 

The metal was cold, he pulled the mesh over himself. He had locked the door, but he heard footsteps. Someone would come here. Very, very soon, entering codes he could not recall, and soon—

_Aww, baby. Don’t be like that._

There were two berths. 

He picked the wrong one. 

The one on the outside. He never slept on this one. It was closer to the door. If he turned around in his sleep it would leave his back open, and then, then—

He lied on his side, staring at his reflection. The elevator lurched. The carpet looked very red, like some liquid had stained it, deepening the color. Someone was whistling. _How about it, petrorabbit, what in the Pit happened to it? You’ve had your fun, oh turbo-gun, please don’t kill me when you’ve—“_

”I got this new game, looks fun. Wanna check it out?”

__Prowl could not hold his guns. All his fingers locked up, turned on him, refused. He only saw the carpet. The widening patch of red, between the feet, his own energon, his own sick—_ _

_Petrorabbit, petrorabbit._

__“Baby, don’t delete that,” Jazz said, tapping the patch on Prowl’s temple. Temporal mnemonic displacement device. It sat on his face like the mouth of a gun. “I want to remember that part, in case of emergency.”_ _

__What emerged—_ _

__What emergency?_ _

The elevator, and his body, slammed onto the ground.

Alarms blared, the lights turned red. Prowl coughed out pieces of his internals. He heard people shouting. Someone was loading him into a cart, checking diagnostics, asking,

_“What about Jazz, what happened to him?”_

He looked everywhere on the floor, he really did. Just a small device, so small. Smoke clogged his vents, drying coolant lines. _Aww, baby. Don’t be like that._ But he tried, he tried—

__Jazz’s berth was small. Not enough for two. They made it work, somehow. Prowl recalibrated initial scans while Jazz checked over and over the patch’s instructions._ _

__They hooked it up. Clinically tested, population-safe entertainment. No reason why it shouldn’t work._ _

__Jazz whistled as he settled on top of Prowl, “How about it, petrorabbit...”_ _

__Prowl jerked away, embarrassed, “Shut up.” Not his fault what he sang when he was drunk. “I’m taking this off, you incorrigible—“_ _

__“Aww, baby. Don’t be like that.” Jazz laughed, adjusting specifications on his end. Everything looked good to go. Still, Prowl wanted to pinch the goddamn song._ _

__“No way I’m taking that in. What if I’m stuck with it forever?”_ _

__“Won’t happen. And if it does, I’m stuck with it as well. Fair’s fair, innit?”_ _

__Prowl grumbled._ _

__“Baby, don’t delete that, please? I want to remember that part, in case of emergency.”_ _

__What emergency?_ _

__“That’s Jazz’s berth, isn’t it?” Someone asked a heap of twisted metal, protruding from the pavement. “Where’d he go?”_ _

__Go?_ _

__He blew up._ _

_You’ve had your fun, oh turbo-gun._

__“Can you—,” Prowl asked, whenever Ratchet checked on him, “can you take this off me, please? Can you turn it off?”_ _

__Please, please._ _

__“Do you want me to turn it off?”_ _

__Turn off this last bit of Jazz, bouncing around in his head?_ _

__He looked for Jazz’s patch, he really did. It must be on the floor somewhere, such a small device. That one will have most of Jazz, and some of him. Zipping, jumping, echoing._ _

__He tried, he tried, he could not hold his gun._ _

__He could not kill Jazz, now that he’d won._ _

__End._ _

**Author's Note:**

> Me: Hey has anybody done medically-induced crashing/mindmelding for sexy purposes?  
> Also me: ....and it’s October :)


End file.
